


A Birthday Gift for Maia Drazhar

by Zhisanin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-03-07 11:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhisanin/pseuds/Zhisanin
Summary: Based on the kmeme prompt where Varenechibel sends a courier to his fourth son as a birthday gift.





	1. Volunteer

Winternight: a magical night between the old year and the new, neither here nor there. A night of celebration, when even the air is full of magic, when everyone is happy, everyone is welcoming the new hope, promises and possibilities. When even the servantfolk can eat, drink and celebrate as much as they want -- after their lords' and ladies' every whim had been satisfied, of course.

Winternight: a night, when a god or goddess may fancy a look at you and turn your fate around just so.

 **

The Court knew of course that the fourth and youngest archduke was born on Winternight, too. At that time, many thought it to be a good omen; later, when Chenelo Zhasan was relegated anyway, so much like Arbelan had been, they, too, changed their opinions. A wife who was not Pazhiro and a son who was but a too-dark reminder of Pazhiro's stillborn child could not hope for anything good from Varenechibel, no matter the day of his birth.

Eight years passed pretending that the Emperor only had three sons, pretending he was widowed again. Then the zhasan indeed died, the fourth son appeared for the funeral, and even though Varenechibel sent him swiftly away again, to some other but no less remote place, his existence was now undeniable. People kept count of his years, his approaching majority; Varenechibel could not keep him away from the Court forever, so they thought.

But of course Varenechibel could do whatever he wanted, and no official word came of the sixteenth birthday of Maia Drazhar. Not even of the seventeenth. Ten years passed from the death of Chenelo Zhasan;  ten more Winternights altogether, before the fourth archduke was as much as mentioned again.

A month before the turn of the year, well into the short days and cruel nights, word began to spread that while the Emperor did not wish to have his youngest at the Court, he still wished to acknowledge the archduke 's birthday - with a special gift.

The general idea must have originated from Prince Nemolis. He was known to disagree with, even disapprove of their father's treatment of the fourth heir. Those who considered themselves well-informed whispered that the Emperor and the Prince had repeatedly clashed on the matter, Nemolis arguing that Varenechibel should either have his last son silently disposed of or openly acknowledge him, because the situation wouldn't cease to exist with him pretending. Coups had started this way, he allegedly claimed, and finally the Emperor relented.

However, no one who actually knew the Prince of the Court as a person could have claimed that he came up with the details, too. 

**

"Dost plan to volunteer, Aisava?"

Csevet looked at his friend who was making himself comfortable on his bed, burrowing into the blankets and watching Csevet sort his clothes for washing.

"What for?"

"Where hast thou been that dost not know it? His Serenity decided to send a courier to his goblin son."

"So? What is there to volunteer for? Why wouldn't Captain Volsharezh just choose someone to go?"

"It's for his birthday. For Winternight."

"Ah, so. Guess no one wants to ride out to the asshole of Ulis right then?" Csevet shrugged and tossed a shirt to the _still wearable_ pile. "Understandable. I still don't know why anyone should volunteer instead of being picked if unlucky."

"Because whoever gets the job is not going to deliver a message or a birthday gift. He will be the birthday gift himself."

"What?" Csevet lowered his hands and looked at his friend. "Did he request a whore?"

"That, or his doting father decided to send him one, just in case. And assumed a courier would be both willing and fit for the task."

Csevet snorted. "Nice to see how high an opinion His Serenity has of his couriers."

"Aye, his opinion may be low, but the reward is high nonetheless. Three months' salary, paid in one sum upon return. Officially, the task is to keep the Archduke company on Winternight. I'd say it's a decent offer."

"Then go and volunteer thyself. _Officially_ ," Csevet added in a bitterly mocking tone.

"Get down from that high horse, Aisava. Last I knew, thou wert still in deep shit. Or hast paid up to the Captain for that lost package already?"

"I didn’t lose that package. I was robbed," Csevet growled, all interest in sorting clothes lost.

"I believe thee, and so does Captain Volsharezh, this is why thou art still a courier, and a free man to boot, and the Cambeshada paid from the pool. But wilt be able to live off of whatever remains from thy coins after the Captain takes the next instalment? And the next one? And the..."

"It's none of thy business." Csevet shoved he still reasonably clean clothes back into his locker, and started to stuff the stained ones into a canvas bag.

"Hey, don't bite me," his friend protested. "I'm only the messenger! Besides, the Archduke should be right thy type."

"So what?" Csevet straightened, dropped the bag and glared at his grinning friend. "Thy type is the tall and white and oh-so-strong, I still haven't told thee to go and keep Eshevis Tethimar company for Winternight."

"Know'st, what, Aisava?" The other courier stood. "Go and make thyself a little brother."

Csevet returned to the dormitory from the washerwomen and the kitchens an hour later. His friend was nowhere to be seen. Csevet emptied and reorganized his locker twice just to occupy his hands but it didn't help his reeling mind. Finally, he gave up and went straight to Captain Volsharezh's office.

The Captain was, as almost always, lost in one of his thick ledgers, pen in hand. He looked up to Csevet expectantly.

"What is it, Aisava?" He tilted the pen away from the book but didn't put it down. Csevet swallowed.

"Halar said something about volunteering. For Winternight." He stopped: he didn't want to say too much, in case it turned out to be only a prank, but hearing him, the Captain did put down his pen and turned towards him with his ears lifted high.

"Ah, yes, that. Has he told you everything?"

"We wouldn't know, Captain."

"Indeed, indeed. The thing is, His Serenity wants someone to keep his youngest son company on his birthday, and provide whatever available entertainment the Archduke wishes for. That's three days, including Winternight. You surely see why it has to be a volunteer.”

"We do." Csevet tried to swallow again but his mouth felt completely dry. "What of the payment?"

"Enough to cover that lost package and even to save up for rainy days. Three months' salary clear."

"Then we volunteer." His voice didn't break, his ears didn't fall. The Captain nodded and smiled at him; Csevet wanted to believe that his smile was sympathetic.

"Good. We shall add your name to the list and inform you when the decision is made." With that, the Captain picked up his pen again and turned his attention back to the ledger.

"Who decides?" Csevet asked.

Captain Volsharezh's ears twitched.

"We do."

 **

More than two weeks passed with runaround jobs in the Court and about Cetho. The dormitory was abuzz with the preparation for Winternight: whoever could, planned to ride to their faraway homes, bringing all sorts of useful, thoughtful, colorful, beautiful gifts with them. The volunteers --- their numbers now above twenty-five, if the rumor could be trusted --- were trying to figure out who would be chosen and why, and told long tales about how they would spend the money to anyone who would still listen. At first, Csevet found it increasingly hard to not snap at them in his impotent fury; later, his rage tuned into no less impotent, cold numbness. He knew whom the Captain was going to choose.

On windy days, he asked Salezheio _why_ several times, but she never answered. Then, on an evening, when grey snow was drifting down from clouds like molten lead, Captain Volsharezh called him into his office.

"You probably know what we are about to tell you," he said and didn't wait for Csevet to reply. "The decision is made, you are chosen. Here." He handed a sealed letter to Csevet; Csevet didn't take it. He felt dizzy.

"Right away?" he asked hoarsely.

The Captain managed to snuff his surprised laughter into a cough. "Of course not. With the present road conditions we calculated you will need a full week, though, so you should prepare sooner rather than later. You must be on your way by the end of the week. This," he nodded towards the message in his hand, "is for His Serenity. Take it to the Rose Room tomorrow morning yourself. And do not try to open it if you fear Ulis," he added darkly. "It's the official request for your river passage."

Crossing the Istandaärtha was both dangerous and costly, especially in winter, among big chunks of ice floating on the currents, some the size of the ferries themselves. The ferrymasters usually only accepted hard coins or an Imperial seal during these months, not even Captain Volsharezh's warrants. Csevet took the message.

"We shall do so." He couldn't make himself say _thank you;_ so he turned and left.

 

Next morning, as Captain Volsharezh requested, Csevet dressed in his Court best --- plain dark gray corduroy breeches and a linen shirt whose collar and cuffs were not fraying very badly --- and went up to the Rose Room, where the Emperor usually held the forenoon's informal audiences. He told the page that he brought a message from Captain Volsharezh and stepped in through the wide doors.

Varenechibel was reading a long parchment and paid him no mind. An undersecretary held out an impatient hand for Csevet's message, took it, broke the seal unceremoniously and began to skim the lines. Then he blinked, returned to the top of the page, and Csevet saw the indifference on his face melt into a malignant smile before the undersecretary looked at him and eyed him from head to toe and back.

 _It's the official request for your river passage._ Csevet felt his face redden, his ears droop. Of course, the request must include the reason, too; it was stupid of him not to realize that earlier.

The undersecretary slid the message to another over the table. This one must have ranked higher, as he sat closer to the Emperor; he, too, read the paper, then looked at Csevet but at least he was decent enough not to stare.

"Do prepare the pass, Maret," he said in a low voice. "This man would want to be on his way soon. And don't forget about the return journey."

At that, Varenechibel put down the parchment and looked at Csevet, too, his face cold and forbidding as ever.

"What is it?"

"Serenity..." Csevet began and stopped, but no one came to his aid.

He swallowed and remembered to bow. "Serenity, we were chosen by Captain Volsharezh to... to keep the Archduke Maia company at Winternight."

The words came out easily enough, slick as if coated in slime; they left a sick aftertaste on his tongue. _You surely see why it has to be a volunteer._

"Is that so." Varenechibel spoke slowly, without inflection but his eyes sparked icily, amusement mixed with hunger. Csevet, though his face was burning, felt a cold finger running up his spine. Would he want a taste, too?

The Emperor measured him up with slow, lingering eyes; so did everyone else, too, now openly. Csevet watched a tiny, teardrop-shaped moonstone hanging from a fine silver chain on Varenechibel's right ear; his heart was hammering in his chest so loud he was sure everyone could hear it in the suddenly absolute silence.

He counted fifty-eight beats until the Emperor spoke again.

"Good. Wilt do." All interest lost, he picked up the parchment again. Csevet's knees almost buckled beneath him.

"You can wait for your pass outside." Was there pity in the secretary's voice or has he only imagined it? He didn't know and didn't want to wait to find out, either; he turned and fled the room.

 


	2. Edonomee

_You can wait outside_. Indeed, it took only a couple of minutes until the higher-ranking secretary stepped out, a folded paper in his hand.

"Here you are," he said and handed it to Csevet. "River passage there and back again, and cover for any lodgings and meals you will take during your... trip. To a reasonable limit, you understand," he added hastily. "It's valid for a full month, in case of extraordinary circumstances, but we recommend serious consideration as to what constitutes any such. There may be questions later."

Csevet swallowed, forced himself to nod, lift his hand and take the paper. A month of free food and shelter in addition to any actual money was a generous offer indeed, and one he very much doubted was Varenechibel's initiative. Or was this the standard offer for all newly hired Imperial whores?

"Thank you." The words came out strangled but at least they did come out. The secretary regarded him solemnly, then gave a small, stiff nod in return.

"Fare well, Mer Aisava."

With that he turned and went back to the Rose Room.

 

**

  
Csevet rode out two days earlier than planned: he simply couldn't bear the eyes on his face and the whispers behind his back. There was only one Eshoravee but there were several other places with similar reputations, and the unlucky fellows who got sent there were usually regarded like this. Only this was worse. Because he had _volunteered_ to whore himself out, and now he couldn't decide which was worse, the contempt, the pity -- or the envy.

It didn't really matter that he had volunteered only because he had no real choice, for his friend had been right: Captain Volsharezh's trust and credit was a lifeline but one too weak to actually bear his weight. It just lengthened his agony for a couple of months, before the debt caught up with him and he was let go anyway to earn his living as he could -- he had not many illusions about that road, either.

Doctors said that medicines taken in several low doses can heal, while in one high dose they can kill.  Selling himself might, just might, work the other way around.  
  
Outside of Cetho the noises faded behind him soon enough until nothing remained but the crunching of snow under the horse's hooves. The weather finally cleared but the bright sunshine sparkling on the whiteness all around was more painful than heartening. Csevet pulled his hat low on his brows and nudged the horse to a faster trot. With any luck, and the Imperial warrant, of course, he might get himself on a ferry, maybe even reach Rosiro before nightfall.

Imperial warrant he may have had but luck not so much; he was forced to leave the horse at the ferry station's inn because there were too many passengers wanting to cross the river, traveling for Winternight, and a horse left ashore meant two more passengers aboard. Of course, Imperial couriers were entitled to claim horses at inns and lodging houses but it was only too easy to say that every animal belonged to a guest and there were none to take. Innkeepers didn't like having to hunt back their horses from other innkeepers. Csevet wasn't sure that his warrant that did not explicitly mention transportation would be any help there but he had no choice other than to obey or to swim.

The ferry station on the Thu-Evresar side had a horse for him. It was an old nag, slow and stubborn, like a mule but something to get to Rosiro on, so Csevet took it. He reached the city after dusk but still early enough to find a place to eat and sleep, and wasn't terribly upset in the morning when he learned that his horse was taken back to the ferry before dawn. Rosiro had a post station and there he got another horse easily enough, a sturdier, almost beautiful gelding by the name of Prince that took him to Lohaiso in a calm but speedy trot. Csevet almost felt sorry when he left him at the Lohaiso station in exchange for a black mare, Moonlight; it was mutual hate at first sight, so he arrived at Aveio late the next night, tired and sore from head to toe. He took Moonlight to the post, resisted the urge to give her a parting kick, staggered off to the first inn he saw, fell into the doubtfully clean bed and slept until late in the morning. His stomach woke him; he washed and ate, then sat down to count days and coins, then coins, then days again -- finally, he walked out to the airship station.

He spent two full days in Aveio, two wonderful, free days walking around the city, from a bookshop to a barber, from a dollmaker to a tailor, from the old town with its winding, narrow roads and small, squatting houses to the outskirts with its bare winter gardens and orchards. Aveio was not that different from any other prosperous city of the Elflands but here Csevet could turn invisible, could forget his destination and purpose, and just be a curious stranger who ate, slept, and discovered the city at his whim.

On the third day's afternoon an airship arrived from Daiano through Vorenzhessar, towards Csedo through Calestho and Valno. It was not a passenger ship but took on people as well, if they didn't mind the rather uncomfortable ride among the sacks and boxes of the cargo. It was cold, dark and loud, and slow for an airship, but it took them to Calestho an hour before nightfall -- where Csevet found out just how much he had fucked up with those invisible days.

There were no available horses in Calestho. None at the inn -- as he expected, the innkeeper claimed them for his guests' ones, even though the inn was silent as a grave -- and none at the post office either, where the postmaster showed him the empty stalls to prove himself.

"Where are you headed?" he asked with sincere worry in his voice.

"E... Edonomee." Csevet swallowed.

"Ah." The postmaster smiled with a bit of relief. "That's not very far. You will be able to get there by this time tomorrow, the innkeeper has a two-horse sleigh and his son can drive you there once he gets back from..."

"No. That's too late. We need to get there today, no matter what."

The postmaster pressed his lips together in a hard line.

"Then you must foot it. We'd still recommend not to."

"You said it's not very far."

"Not on a sleigh, no. A little under ten miles."

Now it was Csevet's turn to bite his lip. Ten miles should be no obstacle to any courier, especially not to one who had spent his last two and a half days idle; indeed he could walk ten miles happily any day, in between two and three hours. Still, hiking an unknown route on a winter night...

 _The price of thine indulgence,_ he thought, and sighed.

"Will the weather remain clear?"

"All signs say yes. No wind either." The postmaster looked like he wanted to say something else but decided against it.

"Very well. One thing... we should be back the second day after Winternight. Could you please hold a horse for us?"

*  
  
_After the creek you will see a cottage, or what remains of it after the fire. From that it's just a mile or so._ Csevet felt he had walked several hours since he left the husk of the house half-buried in snow, but surely more than a mile or so. The sky was clear, which meant that the fattening moon shone brightly upon all the blue-tinged whiteness around him... and also that the cold was vicious. The coat that protected him well enough in the cities and cargo holds of airships proved to be too thin for the marshland winter, woollen lining or not, and he had been painfully cold for a while now, even walking at a brisk pace.

After another half a mile or so he was shivering uncontrollably. Icy terror filled him from the inside, too. He was lost. He still held the north-north-west route by the stars but had lost the path somewhere along that last mile or so. He might have -- no, probably had -- missed Edonomee, and was now walking deeper and deeper into the marshland.

Going any further without a route or a trail to follow would be idiotic.

Stopping would be suicide.

He walked on, calling to Salezheio silently, desperately, for a sign. Nothing came.

After another minute his half-frozen mind realized the only possible way to go: back on his own trail, back to the inn where a sleigh could be rented. He would be a day late but he would be alive.

If he could walk back that far.

He turned and looked at the dark, winding line of his footsteps in the snow.  _It's just a mile or so._

He tucked his aching fingers deeper under his arms, his chin to his chest, and started walking.

One. Two. Three. Four...

**

He lost the count at around four hundred. He had lost the feeling in his fingers and toes some time before that but still he forced himself to walk, to lift one foot after another, despite the heavy tiredness pressing down on him. He knew only two things: that there was a trail to follow and that stopping was dying.

It was harder and harder now to catch his breath; his vision swam on the moonlit snow and he wasn't at all sure if he was still on the trail anymore. When he heard the first shout, his brain simply refused to process it... but then the sound came again. He looked up, and there was a patch of dark against the starlight-sodden snow, shouting, calling to him, coming towards him on his trail.

Csevet blinked and the blob of darkness resolved itself to a figure wearing a long, hooded black cloak, and holding a pair of skating blades in a gloved hand.  
The thought of skating, that anyone would come out in this weather for fun was so alien that Csevet only stood and looked at the other figure approaching him.

"Are you headed to Edonomee?" the other was asking. Was he real, or something conjured up by his freezing mind? A messenger of Ulis, to escort Csevet back to his lord? He had no face in the semi-darkness beneath the cowl of his cloak, just a pair of eyes peering out from among layers of a dark shawl.

"Yes," Csevet croaked.

"Goddesses, you could have died, what under Cstheio's stars was this urgent?" He took another look and shook his head. "You _are_ freezing. Take your coat off."

For a terrible moment Csevet couldn't understand why the other would want his pathetic coat when he had a clearly better one, but before the question could have formed on his tongue the other had already shrugged off his own cloak and handed it to him. Csevet didn't even consider refusing, just let his bag fall into the snow and clumsily peeled off his coat in return. The cloak was thicker and heavier than it seemed and radiated warmth like a lover's embrace.

"Come," the other said and lifted Csevet's bag onto his shoulder. "It's not very far now."

_Is it just a mile or so?_

Csevet kept his mouth shut, lest he started laughing and be unable to stop, and trudged along obediently beside the other. Wrapped in the cloak, his thoughts soon began to melt and he started to count their steps again. After thirty-three he decided that his savior was most probably a servant of Edonomee, whom Salezheio, goddess of winter, had led onto his trail. After two hundred he realized that he would not only live now but also arrive more or less on time. After another forty the other lifted his arm.

"There. You passed that patch of trees from the wrong side and the windows are shuttered. It's easy to overlook.”

Yes, Csevet could indeed see the dark lump of a house now, through the bare trees. It was definitely not what he expected, no three-storey, whitewashed manor with a red-tiled roof, shining windows, or anything similar, and the thought of how that expectation had nearly cost him his life made him shiver.

Behind the door sleepy candlelight and the stuffy, trapped tang of winter living greeted them -- lamp oil, heavy foods, burnt grease, dampness, unwashed clothes, wood smoke, and bad homebrew. His guide immediately hurried off, hardly taking time to throw Csevet's coat, messenger bag and his own snow hat onto the peg beside the door, his skates under them. "Pelchara? Is there any hot water left?"

His voice trailed back from behind the corner of the short hallway, urgent yet somehow subdued at the same time. He probably didn't want to disturb his lords, Csevet decided, and for the moment, agreed. The lodge was none too warm but even that was enough to make his toes tingle painfully with the quickening blood. He slid the heavy cloak off his shoulders and saw that it was some kind of dark fur -- _not_ fox --, double-layered but old, worn and patched up in several places. A useful and much-used piece, probably the only one the servantfolk shared. He carefully hung it onto another peg and looked around.

The first thing to come to his mind was _bleak_. The stone under his feet was definitely not marble and hadn't been polished for a very long time, if ever; the wall where the cloaks hung was more gray than white with time, dust and handprints, and spots of black mold threw out spiderweb-like tendrils from the corners of the low ceiling. The second was _mistake_. This couldn't be the place where an Archduke lived, even a banished one.

The third was _prison_ , and suddenly a very different kind of cold crept up his spine.  
  
His guide returned just as Csevet decided to step into the hallway and look around more carefully.

"Pelchara will prepare a bath for you in a minute," he said. "There will be some fish stew, too, after you've warmed up. Do you like fish?"

Csevet, even though he quite liked fish, was unable to say yes. Or no. Or anything at all.

Before him, in the dimly lit hallway, stood a darker, skinnier, yet somehow softer issue of Varenechibel.

 


	3. First night

The shock was profound but short; then the well-honed Court reflexes kicked in, and Csevet bowed deeply. "Your Grace!"

"Oh, stand, please, and come this way." The Archduke made a move as if he wanted to take Csevet's bag again; Csevet scrambled to grab it from the peg before he could. The fact that he had already let the Archduke carry it didn't bear thinking about. "Whatever reason brought you here today, you will not leave until daylight. This will be your room for the night." 

With that, he led the way -- it was no more than two steps on the corridor, but still -- to a door once painted white. It opened to a tiny, unused room with a bed, a table just big enough to hold a jug and a glass, both empty, and a single chair. There was no rug on the floor, no warm bedspread on the faded comforter, but it didn't seem shabbier than Edonomee itself on the whole. 

"You can leave your bag here while you bathe and eat."

Csevet swallowed. 

"Your Grace, the reason that we came for..."

"Can it really not wait for a while? You are still half-frozen. Besides, my cousin is asleep already so you will have to wait anyway."

The lapse in formality, along with the mention of the Archduke's cousin threw Csevet, who was indeed still half-frozen. He had read the papers he was sent with. One of them, the one he wished to burn whenever he thought about it, was to prove that he had arrived to Edonomee and spent two full days and three full nights there -- to be signed by Osmer Setheris Nelar, guardian of Maia Drazhar, even though the Archduke was not a minor anymore. 

 _Well, they've been living together for a long time, familiarity is only natural. As to the sleeping arrangements, thy bag can have a room all to itself for once in its life while thou art doing thy job. Besides, here is hoping that_ _Osmer Nelar likes to dine on fish rather than couriers, too._

 _"_ As you wish, Your Grace." He stepped into the room and put his bag onto the bed. 

"Very well. Come, please, we think the bath is ready.”

It was perhaps a bit of an overstatement to call the half-filled wooden tub set in the middle of the small kitchen a proper bath but the water was clean and warm, and the door had a latch (which Csevet, after some deliberation, didn't bother with), so it was better than several other places he had the opportunity or need to clean himself. The soap smelled of lard, ash and a faint trace of rosemary, the towel was old and thin as a dishcloth but at least clean. _Take your time,_ the Archduke had said, so Csevet dared to indeed take a couple of minutes to just sit in the pleasantly warm water -- and think about the situation he found himself in. 

Neither Edonomee nor Maia Drazhar was what he expected, but the one was so much worse, the other so much better than his preconceptions that together they'd have fetched the same coins. Besides...

 _The Archduke should be right thy type._ Halar was right after all: had Csevet happened upon Maia Drazhar in the courier fleet, he'd probably had him in his bed the very first night. Now even the thought felt... what? Disrespectful? Perverse? He'd come here to be the plaything of an allegedly half-mad aristocrat and found a beautiful young man instead, hardly more than a boy, who asked him if he liked fish. 

Csevet had a disturbing feeling that, had he said no, the Archduke would have gotten him something else to eat. 

He groaned. _How about_ not _jumping right over horse and saddle, and declaring thine everlasting love to him after mayhap five minutes, just because he didn't start off with a fist in thy kidneys?_

A shiver ran through him: the water was cooling rapidly, so he stood and scrubbed himself first with the rough soap, then with the rough towel. Red as a half-boiled lobster, he dug through his bag for his clothes, comb and the small vial of perfume he had packed -- sandalwood and verashme, an unusual blend that he had first encountered a while back in Daiano. It was somewhat more masculine than the scents currently popular at court but Csevet found the combination surprisingly effective. 

After a short deliberation he put on a clean pair of drawers and an undershirt -- both a light grey cotton-wool blend, usually worn with travel leathers, and unassuming enough to double as nightclothes -- with corduroy trousers and a linen shirt. The shirt had gotten rumpled beyond repair while tossed about in the bag but there was no helping that. He combed his hair until the strands fell onto his shoulders smoothly, like water, then stepped back into his boots and laced them up loosely.  Finally, he put the other vial of unscented oil into his pocket, should he be separated from his bag again, and opened the door. 

A small, slight boy was waiting outside, so close that he must have been listening. They both started when Csevet stepped out. 

"Oh!" cried the boy. "Sorry! I just got here to prepare the stew. Go back to the dining room, please, I'll be right there!"

"Thank you," Csevet said reflexively and let the boy slip past him. 

The dining room of the lodge was, like the whole house, small and cramped. No one had bothered to put a tablecloth onto the old and battered table, where, beside an unstable-looking heap of legal tomes, several sheets of paper and two pens, the Archduke sat, reading a novel wrapped in old newspapers. Waiting, as if Csevet were someone actually important enough for that. 

Hearing Csevet's steps, he looked up.

"Come, sit down," he said and gestured towards a high-backed wooden chair; for a moment, Csevet though he would stand, too. He dropped his bag beside the chair and gingerly sat, facing the Archduke, who put down his book and was now watching him with evident interest, especially his unbraided hair. _Oh, well._

Now that he, too, could take a better look at the Archduke's face in the light of the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, he saw that his first impression of a younger Varenechibel was false. While Maia Drazhar had indeed inherited his father's features, he was somehow still very much different from the emperor. _More like a painting of Varenechibel, but not the official portrait. Rather, one done with love,_ Csevet thought, and schooled his face to neutral attention. 

"Pelchara will bring the stew in a minute," the Archduke said as the silence grew heavy over the table. "Until that, will you tell us, please, why you were sent here, today of all times?" 

Before Csevet could have opened his mouth to reply, the servant boy opened the kitchen door -- with his foot, because he had both hands full of bowls and spoons. The door slammed into the opposite wall with a loud crash and made both Csevet and the Archduke start.  

"Pelchara! Do try to keep quiet!"

"I'm sorry!" Pelchara whispered, rather uselessly at this point, his face contorted in sincere regret. He quickly put down the deep, blue-glazed stoneware bowls, one full, the other hardly worth washing up, then escaped back into the kitchen. The Archduke looked after him with something very similar to resignation, then took his spoon as a signal for Csevet to start eating. 

Pelchara returned twice more and brought out a slice of dark bread each, then a jug of honeyed herbal tea with two mugs. The stew was both wonderfully tasty and wonderfully hot: Csevet felt the last of the cold leave his insides with a suppressed shudder after a couple of spoonfuls. It occurred to him only then that the Archduke might be even colder than him -- he had walked a mile or so in Csevet's inadequate coat and had no warm bath -- yet he gave no sign of discomfort _. Probably well used to it._ The thought made the next spoonful hard to swallow. 

"Are you quite all right?" the Archduke asked, seeing his hesitation. Csevet lowered his spoon into the bowl. 

"Yes, Your Grace. We... we apologize."

"Whatever for? For the stupidity of whoever decided that you should _walk_ out here, now?"

 _Indeed_ , Csevet thought and didn't raise his eyes from the table.  Finally, the clinking of spoon on bowl signaled that the Archduke had continued eating, so he could, too. Embarrassed or not, he was still very hungry. 

"Speaking of which," the Archduke began again, in a low voice, "what was it that brought you here tonight, again? Are you bearing messages?"

Csevet's spoon froze in the air, above his bowl. 

"No, Your Grace," he said, and swallowed. "We... we were chosen to keep you company for Winternight,"

Silence followed. Csevet didn't dare move a muscle. He didn't know what he wished for more: that the Archduke would understand, or that he would not. 

"Is that so." The short, emotionless sentence jolted Csevet; the stew spilled from his spoon, back into the bowl. "Was that our father's idea of... of a birthday gift?"

 Csevet looked up. The Archduke's face had darkened with anger. He swallowed against the sudden bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

"We apologize, Your Grace," he murmured. "We didn't mean to..."

 He couldn't finish. Disappoint? Repulse? Dismay? Surprise? 

The Archduke pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Please, stop that. You of all people have nothing to apologize for. Was this our father's idea?"

"We... we do not know the particulars, Your Grace." Csevet noticed that the Archduke had put down his spoon, so he quickly followed suit. "But we think it was, yes." 

The Archduke looked at him; his mouth turned down in a hard line as his eyes slid over Csevet's hair, face and clothes again, all the former, badly hidden appreciation gone. Finally, he sighed. 

"Do continue eating, please," he said. "We've already had our dinner." 

Csevet obeyed, if only to have something to occupy himself with; his appetite had fled into the winter night. But a courier eats and sleeps when he can, not when he wants to, and the stew was still tasty, so he resumed eating.  

He had almost finished it when on the corridor a door creaked open. The Archduke winced. 

"Art finally back, boy? Hast not fallen under the ice?" asked a slurred, nasty voice. Csevet frowned. _Is that Osmer Nelar?_   "Am still stuck with thee, then?" 

"Cousin, we have a guest," the Archduke replied warningly. 

"Guest? What guest, at this time?" The owner of the voice stepped into the dining room. He was full-blooded elvish, white-skinned, white-haired, and probably younger than the deep, alcohol-hewn lines around his nose and perpetually turned-down mouth showed. "Oh? Who are you and what wind brought you here tonight?"

Csevet, remembering himself at the last possible moment, stood. 

"We are Csevet Aisava, Osmer Nelar. Imperial courier."

"Oh?" It took Osmer Nelar a couple of seconds to process the information. "Is that so? And pray tell, Mer Courier, what art thou doing, sitting at our table, eating our food, before we have gotten our messages?" 

"There are no messages, Osmer Nelar," Csevet replied with a sinking feeling. "Though we do have a... letter from His Serenity. We were sent to keep the Archduke Maia company for Winternight."

Each time he had to offer the sentence it became a bit easier. Nelar blinked at him, bemused. 

"Compa... what?"

"Osmer Nelar, you do recall that it is the Archduke's birthday tomorrow?" 

Nelar hit him. A quick, stinging slap to the face, not even too strong, yet enough to leave Csevet burning with humiliation. 

"Cousin!" the Archduke cried, but Nelar didn't take his eyes off Csevet. 

"Company, eh? One would think a commoner whore like thou had been properly trained to only use his tongue in the approved way," he drawled. "Art forgetting thy place already, boy. Now, give us that letter."  

Csevet turned away and opened his bag. _So, Osmer Sot, are_ you _the reason why Maia and Pelchara both wanted so keenly to keep quiet?_

He handed over the letter and watched as the drunk Nelar tried to puzzle out the neat handwriting in the low light, wobbling on his feet, frowning and blinking rapidly. He knew perfectly well what was in there; he even could follow how far Nelar has gotten by the extent of the spiteful grin that first appeared, then widened on his face. Finally, Nelar broke out in jerky, hiccuping laughter. 

"Oh, sweet merciful goddesses, this is the best joke of the fucking year!" he choked out. "The best joke of my fucking _life!_ Can I watch?"

"What? Cousin! No!"

"Art sure? We do have to sign this, after all. We wouldn't want to bear false witness," chuckled Nelar. "Oh, well, then. Pelchara! Take our honored guest's things to the Archduke’s room immediately!" He watched as the servant boy grabbed Csevet's bag and took it into another room on the corridor. "So!" he said, still shaking with mirth. "Enjoy the night, then, hobgoblin. Try to take note of everything because on thine own thou wilt never be able to pay for such a refined, urbane whore again. Oh, and in the quite probable case thou find'st thyself unable to use him properly, just send him over." He turned away, then called back over his shoulder. "Otherwise do keep quiet because if any of you wake me again, he'll sleep in the henhouse until after fucking Winternight." 

With that, he strode back on slightly unbalanced steps to his own room and slammed the door behind himself. 

The Archduke stood and fled into the corner room. Csevet, for lack of a better idea, followed. 

The room was only slightly bigger than the empty one; besides the bed and the table, this held a small, cast iron stove and a chest of drawers, several books and other small items strewn about on its top. There was also a rug, its colors faded to dull wine-reds, mustard-yellows and ash-grays, and a simple, once-white tapestry on the wall behind the bed, onto which the Archduke sat heavily, and buried his face in his hands. 

"I'm so very sorry," he said dully. "He's drunk. I... I don’t want you to..."

 _Drunk, and clearly violent enough that thou hast already learned not to speak up against him._ Csevet pressed his lips together. He still felt the sting of the slap and that acidic laugh, but it was already fading; Nelar hadn’t said anything he hadn't had hurled at him before. 

"It's all right," he managed to say. "I... I can sleep on the floor if you wish so." 

The Archduke shook his head.  

"No, you'd wake frozen solid.  We'll have to share the bed." He looked at Csevet again. "You must be very tired anyway, if you walked all the way from Calestho." 

Csevet couldn't say anything to that: he _was_  indeed very tired, but he wasn't paid to just lie down and sleep. Somehow he should try to... 

The Archduke stood and fished out a long and thick nightshirt from under the duvet, then stepped to the door. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll be right back. I recommend that you lie on the outer side. The wall is quite cold, too." 

And he was gone. Csevet, again for lack of a better idea, did as was recommended -- shed his trousers and shirt, put them on the back of the chair and slipped under the layers of comforters. Even the mattress was ice-cold under his body; his feet found a brick that probably should have been warmed up before bedtime but had been forgotten. He tucked the vial of oil under the pillow, pulled the comforters up to his chin -- they smelled slightly musty, too -- and waited. 

The Archduke returned a couple of minutes later, already in his nightshirt. He stood at the chest and began to unmake his thick braid; first, he pried the strands apart with his fingers, then with an old bone comb missing several teeth. Seeing the thick curls Csevet could imagine where they went. His fingers itched to touch, to sink into those curls, to twine them lazily around a finger, maybe as they both lay sated in the bed... 

"Do you require assistance, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice surprisingly even. 

 The Archduke shook his head but didn't turn back. 

"No, thank you." He finished, or rather, stopped after a while, rebraided his hair, then turned down the lamp until it became nothing more but a guttering little flame, good only to see where one could turn it up again. After some more shuffling about, he climbed into the bed behind Csevet's back. The mattress was just wide enough so that they weren't uncomfortably pressed together. 

Csevet turned towards the Archduke and slid his leg over to the other side until their shins brushed against each other. The Archduke jolted and pulled his leg away. 

"Stop, please." The distress in his voice was clear. Csevet pulled back.

"You don't like men?" he tried. _If that's the problem, then it's dark enough to pretend anything and everything thou likest. And I can make it good for both of us, if that's what disturbs thee._

"That's... not something I've even considered before," came the slightly choked reply after a short pause. "That is… I'm not against it but... I'm against taking without true leave. I do realize what this all means. Company, indeed! You should obediently lie down, maybe even pretend enjoyment while I... fuck you." The word tore itself from his throat bitter, agonized. "Should give yourself over to be raped because my father had an idea. No. This is plain wrong. You are a person, not a toy, to be given to another at their whim."  

"I volunteered," Csevet replied without thinking. This would have soothed most worries of most lords but the Archduke winced as if Csevet had hit him. Csevet bit his lip. It _did_ sound terrible. 

"I see," the Archduke said. "Are you at least paid well enough?" His voice was bitter and sharp. "Oh, damn," he added before Csevet could have said anything. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

Csevet could not decide which one would be the right answer; the situation had slipped out of his grasp long ago.  Would admitting the truth anger the Archduke even more, or would he find solace in the fact?

He decided that in this case, sticking to the truth would probably be the best course of action.  

"Yes. Yes, I am," he said quietly.

"Good, then." Silence followed, then the Archduke spoke again. "Why?"

"Pardon...?" 

"Why did you volunteer? For this?"

"Oh. I... I was robbed some time back." Csevet replied truthfully again. "I lost a package and the sender requested that its worth be docked from my pay. Only, my pay isn't enough to cover the instalments and the costs of... urbane living, so it was either volunteering or ramping up debts until eventually I'd be forced to... find other jobs anyway." 

"But why would other jobs be so bad?"

"These would be jobs... done on my knees. Or on my back." 

Pause. 

"I see. So... you chose me as the lesser evil?"

"I... " Csevet's brain and tongue locked up. 

"It's all right." There was definite amusement in Maia's voice now. "I do understand. Though this makes me wonder now what the people at court think about me."

Csevet froze -- but then Maia sighed and turned away, onto his side. 

"Never mind. Good night."

"...good night...?" 

Csevet blinked at the invisible ceiling, puzzled. What, for Salezheio's love, was all that? 

But before he could find an answer, within the cocoon of darkness, silence, exhaustion, a full stomach and the warmth of another body so close, he fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who want to know the story behind the sandalwood and verashme perfume, read [The Winter Emperor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035460/chapters/27247518) by Island of Reil. It's looong and worth every minute.


	4. Winternight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, get your snow boots ready! (And since I most probably won't be able to post the final chapter until the actual solstice, have a happy Winternight, too! :) )

  
Csevet slept deeper and longer than he had anticipated: it felt as if the waking world wasn't able to intrude upon their small, warm bubble. An illusion, of course, but at least a harmless one.

They had both moved towards the source of warmth during the night, and now, as Csevet carefully propped himself up on his elbow, he could look down on the Archduke from an intimate closeness. The sun wasn't fully up yet but in the dim light of the morning he saw that his beautiful, if too-thin face wore a slight frown even asleep, and Csevet was suddenly seized by the irrational desire to caress and comfort him.

He didn't move. What could he say? That everything would be well? Nothing would be well. It might have been a prudent, practical consideration to put a superfluous archduke and a relegated lower noble relative together, like leftover eggs into the same basket, but if yesterday's conduct was anything to go by, Nelar was casually cruel, due to break his ward's spirit, and possibly his bones, before long.

Or was just that the purpose of  the arrangement? Did Varenechibel know Nelar personally enough to consider this a sure way to have his last son killed in every way but the final one? Did he care enough to consider at all? Csevet couldn't decide which possibility was worse.

And yet...

_You're a person, not a toy to be given to another at their whim. This is plain wrong._

If this was the terrible influence of Chenelo Zhasan that everyone talked about, then all the gods and goddesses bless her soul in Ulis's realm.

The Archduke stirred; his face pinched even more, then he looked up. Their eyes met; for a long, long moment neither of them moved. Then Maia scurried away, straight out of the bed. His nightshirt, frustratingly, was loose enough to hide any sign of sudden interest.

"Good morning," he said. "Have you slept well?"

"Good morning." Csevet sat up, too. "Quite well, yes, thank you."

 _It's still a bit early to be up and about, especially today, don't you think so?_ he added but didn’t say out loud. _You could just climb back into bed. I don't bite... unless requested._

He shivered: the room had become uncomfortably cold during the night.

"I think the kitchen is much warmer," the Archduke said. He stepped to the chest and took out some clothes. "There should be some tea and breakfast, too. Let me check."

Before Csevet could have said anything, he was out of the room. Csevet sighed. _Wilt have to work harder for that signature than didst think_ , he remarked with bitter irony. _If only so that the esteemed Osmer Nelar won't have to bear false witness_.

He quickly put on yesterday's trousers and shirt, rebraided his hair, then, as the Archduke still hadn't returned, went to find him. There was indeed a fire already going in the kitchen. With the door open, it warmed up the short corridor and the dining room, too, where on the table a full breakfast waited: the same dark bread with thin butter, some kind of dark red jam, several pieces of cooked sausage, boiled eggs, and a jug of tea. On the side there was another, smaller jug of milk and a bowl with three eggs and a spoon in it. _Hangover fare_. There was no one in the kitchen, either. Csevet, bewildered, quickly washed up in the bowl of water clearly set aside for this purpose, then went back to the dining room -- just in time to see the Archduke step into his own room with a basket of firewood on his arm. So there must be a back door somewhere... but why was Pelchara, or whoever prepared the breakfast, not tending to the fires?  
He couldn't get himself to sit down, and he was quite grimly sure Maia was practiced enough to be able to revive the embers in a stove on his own, so he waited, hovering awkwardly behind one of the chairs until the archduke of the realm came out again.

"Why don't you sit down?" Maia asked. "One minute, just let me wash my hands."

Csevet put his hands on the back of the chair but didn’t sit until Maia came back.

"Has Pelchara... gone somewhere?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes. Home, for today. Everyone went home yesterday or this morning."

"And... won't they come back?

"No. They will spend the evening with their families." Maia looked at Csevet. "In case you were wondering, there will be no festivities here today. Especially because it's my birthday."

"But..."

"No. My existence is nothing to be joyful about."

The casual tone of the sentence hit Csevet even more than the words; he managed to keep his face neutral but only by long years of practice. He had spent no more than a couple of waking hours in Maia Drazhar's company but was already quite joyful about his existence, especially in light of his Court experiences.

"Don't say that, Your Grace. Nemolis... your brother, the Prince Nemolis, is known to speak up for you. He'd want you at the Court, where you belong. It's..."

He stopped awkwardly. Maia looked at him with a small, indecipherable smile.

"It's our father, the emperor who wouldn't hear of it," he finished. "Yes, I know that. Canst speak openly, I won't begrudge or punish thee. And please, call me Maia. _Your Grace_ is someone who indeed belongs in the Court and isn't under guardianship of his not-really-cousin even at eighteen."

Csevet swallowed. This was a lot to say in so few words. He shifted his gaze sideways, and shifted his words, too, at least until he could figure out what to reply.

"You are not related?" he asked.

Maia smiled. "Do sit down and eat," he said, and as Csevet obeyed, he sat, too. "We are. Distantly."

When he saw that Csevet wouldn't touch the food first, he took a slice of bread, put it onto his plate and took a mug of tea in both hands instead. Csevet cautiously took a small sausage and two eggs; he wasn't entirely sure if there would be anything else prepared to eat until the servants returned, whenever that would be. Maia sighed.

"As to my cousin, I apologize for what he did and said yesterday," he said evenly. "He has a quick temper."

Csevet kept his eyes trained on the table before them and bit his tongue to stop himself from asking the impossible. He was fairly certain he knew the answer anyway.

"It's not your fault," he replied because he had to reply something. The eggs on his plate suddenly lost their appeal.

"Still." Maia put down the mug and picked up the bread slice and the butterknife instead. "Anyway, there will be a small celebration of the new light in town, in the afternoon. A short thanks-giving of sorts, and a chorus performance. We could go see that."

"In Calestho?"

"Yes." A short pause. "l'd as soon as not stay in here for the whole day anyway, if thou dost not mind some walking."

_Some walking? The ten miles to there, then back again?_

Csevet looked up with mock defiance on his face.

"I'm a courier," he said. "That means I can walk however long I h... want."

He swallowed _have to_ just in time. This was not a request but an offer, and not a half-bad one at that.

Maia's lips twitched into a small smile.

"Very well. Let's eat, then, and prepare ourselves."

 

  
Neither of them spoke again for a while. Csevet couldn't help noticing that Maia ate barely anything. Though the sausages were tasty, spicy with just the right amount of hot peppers, he decided not to pick out a third piece from the bowl, either. Maia, of course, noticed.

"We can take the rest with us," he said. "We will walk quite a while."

"But your cousin...?"

"Don't worry about him. He eats proper food only in the evenings, and for that we have cold roast in storage."

That answered Csevet's one worry but not all. He picked out another sausage.

"Won't he wonder where you've gone?"

Maia shook his head and lifted his mug.

"No. He knows about the celebration... and there aren't many places to go to around here, anyway. If he wonders, he'll figure it out."

_But he won't._

There was nothing else to say to that. Csevet chewed and swallowed in silence, while Maia contemplated his tea. After he finished, they cleaned up their plates and prepared sandwiches in the kitchen, still in silence -- Maia knew where to reach for wax paper and held the clip-stopper bottles steady while Csevet poured tea. It was unhurried, hypnotic, and Csevet almost started when Maia spoke again.

"Thank thee. Now, let me get thee something to wear... are thy boots waterproof?"

"Yes, but..."

"But? Canst not walk there and back in that coat. Or dost have any specific reason to die before spring?"

The question sounded uncomfortably like something Nelar would have asked, but while coming from Nelar's own mouth it would have cut like ice, from Maia it sounded dangerously similar to friendly banter. Csevet swallowed.

"No. Thank you."

It took some time, an extra pair of thick, knee-high woollen stockings, two bulky knitted mittens covering Csevet's wrists and another long fur cloak reeking of cedar before Maia decided that they could safely set out. At least he let Csevet pick up the small bag with the sandwiches and tea.

For a short while they walked in silence, at a comfortable but not too slow pace and Csevet wondered if he was supposed to open conversation or not. But then they crossed an inexplicable line of tracks and he realized with a shudder that they were his. He must have been far more disoriented the previous evening than he had thought. He sent up a prayer of heartfelt gratitude to Salezheio and waited for the inevitable, but Maia didn't remark on him having missed his way this much. Instead he asked only what was the longest route Csevet had walked without a break.

This led to courier stories, one after another, then to Court gossip. Maia paid keen attention to what he heard; his questions cut to the pith of the matter, his deductions were more and more accurate as they left Edonomee farther and farther behind, and his pool of information grew. He sometimes smiled quietly to himself with the -- probably rare -- pleasure of exercising his brain, and each time Csevet saw it, he wanted to stop walking, grab him and kiss him senseless.

After a couple of miles they slipped into a game of Csevet telling as little as possible, then Maia, after some deliberation and one or two questions, replying with the full situation as he inferred it. Somewhere around the third hour Csevet cautiously shifted to the informal address, too; Maia accepted it with the same strange but not unkind expression and Csevet went on talking. Once, after Csevet, on a whim, gave him only a name and nothing else, Maia looked at him, bemused, then caught the joke and laughed.

"I like riddles but this might be too hard for me," he said. “A little help, please?"

 _For a price._ Csevet had to bite his tongue hard to not let the words slip out. _Salezheio, help me or I'm going to die anyway, before the three days are over_ , he groaned inwardly and could only wonder if the goddess was just playing with him after all.  
  
They arrived at Calestho about an hour after noon. The place was just a small town in daylight, nothing of interest for someone who had lived in Cetho, but Csevet now saw the place through the eyes of Maia, prisoner of Edonomee. The houses were in about the same repair as the Imperial lodge, except for the blacksmith's and the tailor's, who were probably the richest families of Calestho. However, there was something here that was missing from Edonomee. _Life_. There were festive decorations in almost every window, at least a garland cut and glued together from colorful paper scraps, a basket of wrinkled, sweet winter apples or a white candle representing the new light to be born on Winternight. Most walkways were kept clean of snow and ice, and Csevet counted five snow-men on the first street alone.

As they walked further towards the center, between the post office and an inn, two small and warped windows to the world, they passed a couple of people, too. Some took great care to not even look at them, at Maia, as if the wrath of the Emperor was catching. Others, though, waved and smiled; an old woman walking with a stick even went so far as to say _Have a good Winternight, Your Grace, you are in good time for the celebration_ out loud. Maia greeted her by name, and wished her and her family a happy new year as well.

"The celebration will be held at the othasmeire," he said, turning to Csevet "but we do have some time left, I think. Let's go in and sit down for a bit, and arrange for the sleigh for the morning after tomorrow." And not even waiting for an answer, he entered the inn. Csevet followed.

The inn's dining hall was hardly bigger than a noble's receiving room at Court; there were two long tables to either side, decorated with wreaths made out of pine straws, cones, yew berries, colorful ribbons and unlit candles, and a clear way to the high counter between them. Two young girls sat there, waiting for the guests' orders, chatting with each other. The air was warm and heavy with the assorted smells of food, strong beer and weak wine, wet wool and leather clothing and smoke from the lamps and clay pipes. About ten people were sitting along the tables, eating, drinking, talking; as Csevet closed the door behind himself, he noticed that a sudden silence fell onto the room, followed by a wave of urgent talking, louder than before. The guests were trying hard to pretend that nothing had happened.

Maia went up to the counter. Csevet, unsure if he was supposed to follow or not, slowly stepped away from the door, took off his hat and mittens and put them into the small bag, then opened the buttons on his cloak and looked around to see where they could find a place. Courier or no, his feet welcomed the prospect of rest for a while. The guests were still carefully avoiding looking at him openly, but he suspected that his presence was unexpected enough to birth rumors that would last until next Winternight. _I wonder if they will ever come near the truth?_ he thought. _Court gossip would have had me skinned, sliced and mixed into the cold cuts by now_. Of course back at Court it would've been them, couriers, who started the talk, spying on the comings and goings of the nobles and their guests...

The thought brought his fellow couriers to mind. Many travelled home for the festivities, of course, but whoever stayed -- and evaded being picked for delivering last-minute good wishes -- would have a splendid time hanging around below-stairs. Even if the frazzled cooks and servants roped them into helping with the final preparations, there would be the finest food and drinks as payment later... and of course other enjoyments, too.

He wondered what -- and how -- they might think he is doing in Edonomee and smiled. _I wonder if they will ever come near the truth?_

Maia finished talking with the girls, turned away from the counter and walked back to him. "It's arranged," he said. "Come, let's sit as close to the stove as possible."

Csevet nodded; he spied something on a table in front of a woman that gave him an idea. "Just a minute," he replied and leaving Maia to find a place to sit, he, too, went up to the counter. He hoped that the coin he had left in his pocket after paying the airship fare would be enough to cover the Calestho prices. After some quick negotiations with the older girl he got two cups of chocolate, each with a small gingerbread star covered in thick white icing on the plate. He put them onto the table at which he found Maia and sat opposite of him.

"Happy birthday," he said with a smile; he couldn't yet manage to add _Maia_ out loud. But instead of an answering smile, Maia's face darkened, his mouth turned down.

"I don't need your pity," he said slowly and very evenly. He didn't even look at the cup.

The sudden formality jarred Csevet; he had expected many things but not this.

 _My existence is nothing to be joyful about._  

He took a deep breath and pushed the cup closer to Maia. _“Canst speak openly, I won't begrudge or punish thee.” Wilt not, truly, now?_

"I do not offer thee pity. How about some joyfulness about thine existence?"

Silence. Csevet tried again, this time not without a chilling fear. Had he overstepped this badly? With a cup of chocolate, of all things? "Hast saved my life. If nothing else, surely this is reason enough?"

For a long moment, Maia only looked at him -- then, finally, sighed, reached for the cup and took a small sip.

"That was only necessary since thou hadst to come out here, now, because of me, to begin with," he murmured into the chocolate, then looked up. "I'm sorry. I was rude again. Thank thee very much."

Csevet's heart was hammering loudly in his chest; he could only nod and taste the chocolate himself instead of replying. It was surprisingly good, prepared with creamy milk and cinnamon, but it helped him little to catch his thoughts. Only one thing was clear; Maia Drazhar needed to be out from under Setheris Nelar's guardianship as soon as possible.

"What kind of celebration are we going to see?" he asked to steer the conversation towards safer things. 

Maia picked up the gingerbread star and turned it around between his fingers. "Mezheris Talar, the curate will hold a small service to celebrate the new light of Anmura, then the women from around the town will sing hymns to the gods. If there are enough people interested, then some secular songs, too. If there are many people interested, well, anything may happen." He nibbled on the gingerbread; Csevet had to suppress a relieved sigh.

"Anything?" He lifted his eyebrows. "Really?"

Maia laughed silently.  "Aäno, our cook's daughter is in the chorus. I've heard her full repertoire several times over. Probably not anything as per Court standards but anything that's popular around here. From hymns to ballads and tavern songs."

"Oh, interesting. And when will it begin?"

"Not very long now, I think." Maia looked around. "That man in the corner is Mezheris himself. Whenever he thinks everyone has arrived from the nearby farms who wants to be here, he'll go and ring the othasmeire's bell. That will be the signal."

Mezheris Talar was a short and thin man, sitting alone in the far corner, with an empty bowl in front of him and a sour scowl on his face. Csevet turned back to Maia.

"He doesn't seem to be in a very celebratory mood," he remarked, and Maia laughed again.

"He never is. But while we are waiting... wilt tell me about how Winternight is celebrated at Court?

  
About half an hour later the curate indeed stood and, without saying a word to anyone, left the tavern. The guests -- by now there were over thirty of them, and the long benches were quite crowded, except where Maia and Csevet sat -- took their cue and began donning their coats, cloaks, hats and shawls, then left after the curate. Their slow progression took them to the other end of the town, where, beside the ulimeire, a small, red-brick building stood. There was no bell tower, only a high wooden rig on which the bell hung, the long rope free for anyone to grab.

The curate yanked the rope twice. The bell cried out sharply, shattering the words of those still talking, then with some more musical notes the ringing faded.

"Welcome, friends!" Mezheris began. His voice was strong, deeper and rougher than his build indicated. "We are happy to see that so many of you are already here, even though this means that we will have to stay outside. Please allow a few more minutes for the latecomers to arrive and our singers to arrange themselves. We will begin shortly." With that, he yanked the bell rope to produce a piercing double clang again, then went inside to call the chorus out. Csevet expected no more than eight or ten women to line up in front of them but after they arranged themselves, as Mezheris said, he counted twenty-two women and four men among them, too.

Mezheris Athmaza reappeared with a lit candle in his hand and rang the bell for the third time. Someone brought out a stack of new, unlit candles as well and gave them to the singers, who passed them to one another until everyone had one. The onlookers slowly stopped talking and looked at Mezheris expectantly. Finally, the curate stepped forward and began.

He spoke in long-winded sentences, aiming for poignancy but achieving only a dull lecture about how Anmura's new light would, in the coming weeks and months, become stronger and warmer and how this would wake Orshan from her sleep and make her fertile again. The audience endured him with growing impatience and much shuffling of cold feet on the hard-packed snow; Csevet felt a different kind of gratitude for the thick stockings and cloak he was wearing. Finally, after more than half an hour, the maza announced the official birth of the new light and lit the nearest singer's candle from his own.

In another minute, all candles were burning. A sweet, young female voice sang out once, to set the pitch, then the chorus began.

They sang a popular hymn to Anmura first, known across the whole empire, then another to Orshan. Their singing was as heartfelt as the service was plain, their breaths steaming out in small, synchronized puffs over the dancing flames of the candles. Csevet soon caught himself humming along softly and he was not the only one.

To his pleasant surprise, the third song was a carol about Salezheio, followed by a praise to Cstheio Caireizhasan and a prayer to Csaivo for good health for the new year. Then -- nothing. Csevet turned to Maia with silent confusion but Maia only nodded towards the others. _Wait and see._

"Let us hear _Little Neian Went to See the Goddess!_ " someone shouted.

"The one with the ogress and the dach'osmer!" someone else added, and a soft murmur rippled through the audience. _Yes, yes, hear that._

 _"How the Moon and the Star made the Sun!"_  

"The _Haneviad!_ "

"Enough, enough!" A plump woman from the first line of singers laughed. "Ask no more, these already will keep us here near nightfall! Come back in a fortnight and you shall hear more! Now, which was the first? Little Neian?"

Little Neian, as it turned out, was a village girl whose mother fell ill and no medicine could help her. Neian, desperate to keep her alive, went to Csaivo to ask for help. Csaivo didn't give her the medicine, instead asking if Neian was willing to serve a time for it. Neian said yes and the goddess kept her as a servant for seven months and seven days -- sung in seven verses, seven lines in each -- during which little Neian learned everything there was to learn about healing with herbs. After the seven months passed, Csaivo brought her back in time to the very day she started out. Neian ran home and promptly healed her mother with her new knowledge.

 _The Ogress and the Dach'osmer_ was a long and apparently sad story, though Csevet didn't understand much from the song itself, because the voice of the men who sang the dach'osmer's lines didn't carry well enough. The next one told how Ulis and Cstheio became parents of Anmura; that one he already knew, in a much bawdier version where Ulis also fathered Osreian, twin sister, later lover of Anmura, but had gotten carried away in the process, and accidentally made elves all white. He knew the _Haneviad_ by heart; everyone knew that one, in several versions, each longer than the last.

It wasn't nightfall yet when the song ended, but the daylight was already fading, and the small candle-flames seemed to grow brighter and brighter by the minute. The curate, after a perfunctory blessing, dismissed the crowd. The long line of people first walked slowly towards the center of the town, but as more and more departed it, the pace quickened. By the other end of Calestho it was only Maia and Csevet again. They only stopped to unwrap a sandwich, then ate and walked in companionable silence for a while.

"That was very entertaining," Csevet said at last. "I'm glad to have seen it. Thank thee."

Maia nodded "It is something Calestho is known for. I'm glad that camest with me." Pause. "Didst know the songs before?"

"The religious hymns, yes. And Cstheio and Ulis' story... though in a bit more colorful version. Courier version," he added, half hoping, half dreading that Maia would ask for details, but he only smiled. Csevet continued. "The _Haneviad_ , of course."

"The same version?"

"That, too, though my personal favorite is the one that doesn't end right after Hanevis dies."

"Oh?"

"It tells of later times, too. About Beltanthiar, how heartbroken he was all his life. He never was able to say a kind word to even his family anymore."

"And so they paid the price for another's affair," Maia sighed. "Poets rarely ask the other ones."

Csevet didn't reply. The question, _is there someone there waiting for thee,_ was clear in the crunching of their footfalls in the snow but Maia didn't say it out loud so he pretended not to hear.

"I didn't know the one about the ogress and the dach'osmer, though," he said instead. "And I couldn't understand the lines, either. Pity, because it seemed to be everyone's favorite."

"Yes, it's quite popular around here," Maia nodded. "The ogress can be understood as a literal female ogre from the mountains, or as a woman who was cast out because of her untamed mazeise abilities. Either way, she lived a dull and lonely life, until she somehow learned that she was cursed at birth, and should a dach'osmer accept her hand in sworn marriage, she'd immediately become an ordinary woman. So she went to the nearest unmarried noble and offered him her hand, along with her considerable wealth of gold, silver, jewelry and even lands. The dach'osmer…”

Maia trailed off; before them, in the last of the daylight, a dark shadow of an animal loped across the path to disappear among the low bushes again. A fox. Csevet looked after it, surprised; he didn't even realize he had stopped walking until he heard Maia's voice again.

"Look'st like thou hast unexpectedly met a long-lost cousin who then didn't accept thy greeting," he said. "Dost have any particular ties to marshland foxes? Or just this one?"

"I only..." Csevet shook his head. "Nothing. I mean... yes, I'm partial to foxes, but... that's an old story." _And I do not want to talk about it, so please don't even ask. I'd hate to refuse thee._

Maia didn't ask.

"There is a place we could go tomorrow," he said after a while. "Edonomee was built as a hunting lodge and has several look-outs around where one can watch the animals come and go. Sometimes even foxes," he added. "If thou dost not mind the possibility of sitting there for hours in vain."

"I don't." _As long as I can sit with thee, talking. Or maybe, maybe doing other things, too._

They walked back to Edonomee at a slower but still steady pace, talking about the marshland fauna, the hunting parties of the nobles, the people of Calestho, mazei and ogres -- Csevet learned that in the ballad the dach'osmer not only refused the ogress out of fear but he collected a party of his friends and drove her out of her mountain home, too, then took everything she offered anyway, married a beautiful elven maiden with the new wealth and started a dynasty. They ate the remaining sandwiches and drank the cold tea on their feet, then talked about fashionable foods and drinks, then clothing and jewelry styles, then popular books and theatre plays. At the end Csevet even recited the courier version of _The Star and the Moon_ , though he didn't dare sing it. Maia listened with amused attention and didn't look _too_ scandalized. In return, Maia told him local folk tales that Csevet hadn't heard before.

All too soon, they reached the dark and sullen manor again. They found Setheris Nelar at the dining table, in the company of some cold meat in a bright red sauce with roasted potatoes, and two bottles of metheglin, one empty, the other less than half full. He was writing something on a sheet of paper but put his pen down when the door opened. He scowled at them, as if they were something that the cat dragged in, then stood, taking the paper and the bottle with him.

"Welcome back," he grunted. "Have a happy fucking Winternight. Whatever your further plans are, we are not interested. This means..." He stabbed vaguely towards them with a long, menacing finger. "Shut the fuck up!"

Csevet found this quite unjust, considering that neither of them had said a word yet, not even a greeting, but as Nelar went into his own room with slightly wobbly steps, he couldn't suppress a small smile. _What a pity, Osmer Sot, we happen to have some plans that include making your ward cry out eventually. Loudly. Repeatedly._

Nelar's door banged shut with a force as if he'd heard Csevet's thoughts. Maia winced, then sighed.

"Oh, well. Let's heat some water to clean ourselves, then eat."

"Where do I find the wood?" Csevet asked. Maia looked at him, then nodded towards the kitchen.

"Come, this way."

They brought in enough wood for both the kitchen and Maia's stove, then, while Maia was re-lighting the fires, Csevet worked the kitchen pump to pull enough water into the deep bowl that sat in a hole of the oven plate for two rounds of washing. By the time they finished eating it would be pleasantly warm. The pump needed greasing, it whined loudly and painfully with every pull, and the sound, though it made his teeth rattle in his jaws, filled Csevet with deep satisfaction. 

Kevo was a very good cook; the venison was so tender that it almost melted in their mouths, roasted with juniper berries, rosemary, sage and garlic, and perfectly offset by the sweet-sour berry sauce. Csevet ate three shamelessly big slices, but even Maia finished one entirely before pushing his plate away and sitting back to watch Csevet eating. It should have been uncomfortable but somehow it wasn't. After he, too, finished, Maia stood.

"Wait a minute," he said, and Csevet obediently plopped back onto his chair. Maia disappeared into the kitchen, then a door creaked, silverware jingled softly as a drawer was opened, then came some more soft noises Csevet couldn't quite place. Finally, Maia reappeared in the doorway, a plate held high in each hand, so that Csevet couldn't see what was on it until Maia set the plate in front of him.

It was a slice of traditional, nineteen-layer honeycake with whole almonds stuck in the icing on top and crumbs of caramel brittle mixed into the filing. Csevet could only blink at Maia.

"Kevo said she'd bake something if she had the time," Maia explained. "I didn't actually know if she did until I looked just now but... well. Happy Winternight."

"Thank thee." Csevet looked at his plate, then at Maia again. This kind of cake wasn't something one would whip up in a free hour. Kevo must have planned and prepared it well in advance. And probably not for Nelar's sake, either.

Even though the cake came from cold storage, the proof that someone in Edonomee actually liked Maia warmed him more than the stew from yesterday afternoon. It was no less delicious, either, than the ones intended to the Imperial tables, from which he sometimes could snatch up a less-than-perfectly formed piece between delivery rounds. _Now, this evening is nearly perfect. Nearly._

After the cake was gone, they quickly -- and silently -- cleaned up after themselves, then shared the hot water to clean themselves, too. When Csevet entered the corner room, Maia was sitting on the bed, already in his nightshirt, trying to tame his kinky locks again. Csevet simply sat beside him and pulled out his own comb.

Maia gave up soon enough, and stood to put his comb down again. Csevet swallowed his nervousness, firmly shut the part of his mind that was screaming at him about archdukes and commoners, liberties never to be taken, assumptions never to be made, and stood as well.

"May I ask something of thee? For Winternight?" His voice cracked slightly on the last syllable.

"Yes?" Maia turned around. Csevet stepped forward, rose slightly to his toes, smoothed his palm onto Maia's face and kissed him.

A small, surprised noise escaped Maia's throat; his hands flew up to Csevet’s shoulders and pushed him away. For a moment they looked at each other, both mortified and speechless.

"Oh... I am sorry, I didn't mean to..." Csevet trailed off. He quite obviously did mean to.

"Why...?" asked Maia breathlessly. "I told thee I don't need... I wouldn't require thee to..."

Though his skin wouldn't hold a true blush, Csevet perceived that his face did grow darker -- and he hadn't said _I don't want to_. He took a deep breath.

"I'm still not offering thee pity," he whispered. "Neither am I asking for it. I'm asking for something else. Come to bed with me. Let me touch thee. Let me..."

Maia shook his head.

"Dost not have to do this," he repeated but at least he didn't pull away any further.

"What if I want to?"

" _What if_ is still not _yes_. This opportunity may be the lesser evil for thee, but it's still evil. Thou would'st not have chosen to come here and... sleep with me if hadst any other way to pay off thy debt than selling thyself."

Csevet swallowed. "True," he admitted. "But there was a very specific reason why."

Maia raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"I didn’t know thee before."

"Oh, of course, how silly of me to not have realized that earlier."

"Salezheio," Csevet breathed. "I swear to all the names of the Winged Lady of Winter who watches over the couriers that I haven't told thee one false word yet. I might have, had we met under different circumstances. I'm far from blameless. But I've spoken only in sooth to thee."

Maia looked at him and didn't say a word.

"Maia... I don't know what thy cousin has told thee, but has it ever occurred to thee that he might not have been entirely objective?"

Maia still didn't react. Csevet took all his courage in hand and reached up to kiss him again.

This time Maia didn't push him away. After some initial hesitation he returned the kiss, first slowly, uncertainly, but then more and more eagerly. He tasted of minty tooth powder and a memory of honeycake, and Csevet let his trembling fingers slide onto Maia's nape, up behind his ears, into his loose braid. Maia gasped; Csevet only kissed him harder, letting his impatience show.

Finally Maia broke the kiss and opened his eyes, out of breath.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted. "If we really are going to do this, I want it to be... pleasurable for both of us. But I don't know how. Wilt show me?"

Csevet blinked -- it was suddenly very hard for him to think clearly -- then nodded. "Yes. Yes, I will show thee everything thou want'st to know. Come."

He steered Maia to the bed, pulled the blankets over them both, then pressed himself to Maia and kissed him again. This time he savored the sweetness slowly, letting his desire warm up both Maia and the bed.

"Mm, yes," he murmured against Maia's neck, making him shiver. "Art so beautiful and sweet. Which of us is given a present now, I wonder."

Maia laughed softly; his fingers dug into Csevet's back, trying to pull him even closer, and Csevet eagerly complied, shifting himself between Maia's legs, pressing their groins together. In this position he was only able to caress Maia's ear gently, very gently, and to muffle his helpless gasps with his own mouth and tongue, _just so that Osmer Sot may have an undisturbed drinking-time_. He grasped for the hem of Maia's nightshirt but it was too long; finally, he admitted defeat and let Maia go.

"Take this off," he demanded, any deference to rank or nobility forgotten. "I want to actually touch thee."

Maia's face grew darker even in the low light of the lamp that he had forgotten to turn down. "Show me how to touch thee first."

For a moment Csevet only looked at him -- then breathed a small kiss onto his lips and obediently wriggled out of his underclothes. Maia didn't even try to hide his impatience; as soon as Csevet was halfway naked, his questing fingers were on Csevet's skin, hot like flames. His palms slid up Csevet's arms, down his back, then his buttocks, up the sides of his thighs, his belly, his chest -- but nowhere near enough to his near-painful cockstand.

"Dost like this?" Maia murmured.

"Yes," Csevet gasped. "Please..."

"Hmm?" Maia was drawing long lines onto his chest with the tip of his nails. Csevet, unable to form a coherent reply, took his hand and guided it between his own legs. Maia's fingers ghosted along his cock. Csevet groaned in frustrated desire.

"Please," he repeated. 

Another light caress, this time around the head. "Show me how thou likest it."

Csevet took a trembling breath and reached down to curl Maia's fingers around his cock. "As would'st touch thyself." 

It was a brazen assumption, but apparently a correct one, because Maia gave a small noise of assent and slid his hand slowly down, then up again on Csevet's shaft -- then, as Csevet didn't jerk away, he began working it excruciatingly slowly, with just the right amount of pressure and the occasional twist of his wrist. Csevet threw his head back onto the pillow and bit his lower lip hard but his desperate moans kept escaping. His grasping fingers found Maia's other hand and grabbed it, holding on for dear life. On some level he realized that he would now be unable to ever forget the self-imposed picture of Maia, lying alone in his bed, pleasuring himself first slowly, then quicker and quicker, thinking about... about...

"Know that from now on whenever I touch myself I won't be able to think about anything but this," Maia whispered into his ear and with that, Csevet was lost: his whole body jerked and he spilled all over Maia's hand and his own stomach.

"Didst truly want this," Maia murmured, his voice filled with wonder. Csevet supposed he should feel indignation at the implication but he couldn't muster the smallest spark of it.

"Yes," he sighed. "Sweet merciful goddesses, yes, I did." He knew he should move, but all he was able to do was lie there, eyes closed, head spinning, muscles twitching. He heard a silent huff of laugh, then Maia lay down, too, and embraced him.

"Art well?"

Csevet almost laughed out loud at the question; he stopped it only because he feared Maia might take it as mockery. "Haven't been better in a long time," he whispered. "But now let me show thee something else."

"Oh?"

This time Maia didn't resist when Csevet, after cleaning them with a kerchief, divested him of his nightshirt and arranged him for easy access. He wanted to pay back what he had received, with interest. _So that thou hast something else to think about in the future, too,_ he whispered into Maia's ear, then licked the inner whorls quickly. Maia gasped and closed his eyes, so Csevet kissed him thoroughly, for good measure before he began to discover where Maia Drazhar liked best to be touched.

There were the usual places to caress and kiss, revealed by Maia's gasps, moans, and stifled whimpers -- his ankles, the back of his knees, his inner thighs, his navel, his nipples, the crooks of his arms, his wrists, his ears. But Csevet also discovered that Maia especially liked when he sucked on his fingers or licked along his collarbone, or dipped his tongue into the small hollow of his neck, or grazed his earlobes very carefully with his teeth. By the time he had more or less finished his explorations, Maia was trembling, his earlier shyness burned away.

"Have I already told thee how beautiful thou art?" Csevet slid down on the mattress, to find a comfortable position between Maia's legs. "Both clothed and naked."

Maia tried to reply something but his words trailed off into incoherence as Csevet licked along his cock, around the head, smoothing his other hand overMaia's stones. He felt them already tightening, so instead of teasing Maia further -- _there may yet be time to fully enjoy this, and more_ \-- he began to suck him in earnest. Maia indeed almost immediately spent himself, with a cry he tried to muffle with his hand but managed to do so only halfway. Csevet, as he swallowed the last drops, hoped that Nelar had heard that, at least.

He lay back beside Maia and arranged the blankets over both of them again. Maia turned towards him, pulled him close and kissed him sleepily.

"Well, that was... inspiring," he murmured.

"Inspiring," Csevet repeated incredulously. Laughter, easy and light as fresh snow, bubbled up in his throat. _"Inspiring?_ "

"Why, yes. What's wrong with 'inspiring'?" Maia wasn't laughing but just barely.

 _Oh, absolutely nothing,_ Csevet wanted to say, but had to keep his mouth pressed tightly together to keep his abrupt mirth contained. _Absolutely nothing._

It took a long minute until neither of them was silently hiccuping with suppressed laughter anymore, as if tickled. In the contented silence that descended upon them, Csevet suddenly felt the heavy tiredness of the day and had to swallow back a yawn. Maia did the same, then sat up.

"What's wrong?" Csevet lifted his head but Maia only stepped to the lamp to turn it down, and then he was back in Csevet's arms, warm and soft and perfect. For a while, neither of them spoke and Csevet was only half awake when Maia took a deep breath.

"Art asleep?" he whispered.

"No." Csevet looked up.

"Can I ask thee a question?"

"Yes?"

"What wert thou expecting? About me?

"...I'm asleep, actually."

The words were out before he could have thought better but Maia only laughed silently and didn't force it. Csevet suppressed a sigh. Was it less than two full days ago that he so dreaded spending time with Maia, expecting these days to last longer than a century? No one at Court knew anything about Maia Drazhar. Still, from what one could hear about him if asked, the last Imperial heir could have been a savage ogre, rather than just a half-blood archduke. An archduke who should have been living at Court, possibly as advisor to Prince Nemolis, then Varenechibel the Fifth... where, of course, he could choose whomever he wanted as a lover. But with so many wishes flying around on Winternight what was one more?

Csevet gathered Maia a bit closer still, buried his nose in the thick curls that slid free from his braid, and listened to his slow, even breathing. His heart sang a quiet, simple tune and for the moment, for Edonomee, it was enough.

_Happy birthday, Maia Drazhar._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the ogress and the dach'osmer is based (very loosely) on the ballad _Herr Mannelig_. (Try Garmarna on YouTube, or Shilan Anderson if you can find that version somewhere.)
> 
> Update: I finally found where I've stolen the "courier" version of The Moon and The Stars from! The original idea belonged to DachOsmin in the chat (and it was about Anmura, too; Ulis was added to the mix only later). I hope you don't mind? Thank you!


End file.
